


nothing but an invitation to the blues

by trustingno1



Series: Season/Series 3 Alternate and Missing Scenes [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, F/F, F/M, Missing Scene, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2892377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm afraid I'll have to decline," Mycroft says, with mock-regret. "My apologies to the bride, naturally."</p><p>John's gaze is flat. "You don't even know when it <i>is</i>," he says, nodding at the unopened invitation, and Mycroft's smile doesn't reach his eyes.</p><p>"I didn't say I had other plans," he points out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing but an invitation to the blues

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of pre-3x02 silliness, because one of my favourite parts in TSoT is that Mycroft declined to come to the wedding, and there will never be enough of Mycroft trying to be a good brother, or Mycroft/John scenes for my liking. :)

  
"Well," Mycroft says, from 221B's doorway, "Isn't this _cozy_?"  
  
John finishes addressing the envelope in front of him before he looks up; the pause disrupts their rhythm, and Sherlock huffs in irritation as he grabs the envelope from John's hands and affixes a stamp.  
  
"Who let you in?" John asks, and Mycroft doesn't bother dignifying that with a reply.  
  
"Why are you _here_?" Sherlock asks, adding the invitation to the growing stack ready to mail out. "Whatever you want, the answer's no."  
  
"Just a social visit, brother mine," Mycroft says, mildly.  
  
" _No_ ," Sherlock insists.  
  
"I didn't pose a question," and even John can hear the amusement in Mycroft's voice.  
  
"I'm objecting to your _presence_ ," Sherlock says, as John hunts through the invitations for Mycroft's envelope.  
  
"Here," John says, shoving it at Mycroft, unceremoniously. "Save on postage," he adds, and Mycroft slowly crosses the room to take the invitation from him.  
  
"I'm afraid I'll have to decline," Mycroft says, with mock-regret. "My apologies to the bride, naturally."  
  
John's gaze is flat. "You don't even know when it _is_ ," he says, nodding at the unopened envelope, and Mycroft's smile doesn't reach his eyes.  
  
"I didn't say I had other plans," he points out, and John shrugs.  
  
"Well. I'm shattered."  
  
"No doubt, John."  
  
Mycroft places the envelope back down on the coffee table, and John chokes out an incredulous laugh.  
  
"It's getting close, isn't it?" Mycroft asks, rhetorically, "The big _day_. Working hard on the speech, Sherlock?" and Sherlock stiffens, almost imperceptibly, next to John.  
  
"I've made a couple of notes," he murmurs, and Mycroft laughs, indulgently.  
  
"By all accounts, you've been working _quite_ hard."  
  
Sherlock stares at him for a moment, before his head tilts back, slightly. "Of course," he breathes, "Checking in with my _handler_ -"  
  
"I'm sure it'll be great," John says, with finality, before Mycroft can reply.  
  
"And, of course, the stag _do_ ," Mycroft says, with an oratory lip curl, taking a seat in John's old chair and crossing his legs, "How goes the planning for that?"  
  
"Oh, please," John mutters, "Have a seat."  
  
Mycroft's smile is slow. "You still consider this your flat. Your chair. _Fascinating_."  
  
"No," John says, with a thin-lipped smile, "Just a bit surprised you don't have better manners."  
  
Mycroft presses his lips together for a moment as Sherlock huffs out a quiet laugh.  
  
"Who's passed _muster_ for the stag do guest list?" Mycroft wonders, "I can't imagine you tolerate many of John's other friends."  
  
"John doesn't have any other friends," Sherlock mutters.  
  
"Oi," John protests, without heat (but he still has a paper, a _terrible_ bloody birthday gift, stashed in a box in the back of his wardrobe, that says something very similar).  
  
"Demonstrably untrue," Mycroft says, gaze dropping to the invitations in front of them. Then - " _Oh_. Just the two of you?" he asks, mock-incredulously, "That's _unusual_ , isn't it?"  
  
Sherlock glances over at John, face blank, and it probably never _occurred_ to him to invite anyone else, and John loathes that Mycroft is making him feel self-conscious about _this_.  
  
"Mmmn?" John replies, absently, stuffing another envelope, "You been to a lot of stag nights, Mycroft?"  
  
A cheap shot, maybe, but Mycroft huffs in amusement (so _tickled_ when John engages in this).  
  
"Apologies," he says, disingenuously, "I didn't realise it was such a _sensitive_ subject."  
  
John grabs the next invitation, keeps his voice steady. "It's not.  
  
"It makes sense," Mycroft says, "End of an era, really."  
  
"Mmmn, it's really not," John says, again.  
  
"How do you feel about goldfish, John?" Mycroft asks, and John stopped trying to keep up with Holmes brothers _years_ ago.  
  
"Generally pro," John deadpans, and Mycroft's gaze is withering.  
  
"Interesting creatures," he muses, and Sherlock scoffs.  
  
"Right," John says, gamely. "Sure."  
  
"Did you know, for example," Mycroft continues, like he hasn't spoken, "that their memory-span is thought to be about three months?" he pauses, makes a show of checking the time. He stands, gaze traveling over to Sherlock. "Rarely much longer than that. Just a few months," he says, tone a little gentler, but Sherlock bristles.  
  
" _Out_ ," he manages to reply, tightly, while John looks between them, dumbfounded.  
  
"Hang on," John says, " _What?_ "  
  
"Nothing," Sherlock replies, "Mycroft was just leaving."  
  
Mycroft's smile is thin. "Apologies again about the wedding, John. I _will_ try to catch the next one," and he says it so _pleasantly_ that it takes John a beat to -  
  
"Sorry?" he asks, incredulously, "The _next_ -"  
  
Mycroft examines the tip of his umbrella and says, absently, "The ONS predicts that almost half of all marriages will end in divorce." His gaze travels past John, to Sherlock, again. "Balance of probabilities, really."  
  
"Yeah. Right," John says, half-turning to Sherlock. "For the record? This-" he jerks his head at Mycroft, "Not good toast material."  
  
With a quiet click of his tongue, Sherlock replies, gaze fixed on Mycroft, "Noted."  
  
" _Do_ let my office know where you're registered, John," Mycroft says, like John's an acquaintance, like he hasn't had Mycroft's number for _years_  
  
(like he never trusted John with Sherlock's life).  
  
"Or I could just text you," John says, and Sherlock snorts in laughter.  
  
"Yes," Mycroft agrees, genially, and it's not word-for-word, but he doesn't miss the reference, "On your _phone_." The fingers on John's left hand curl, just slightly, and it's not a tremor, not even close, but Mycroft doesn't miss it. "Talking about your _wedding_ upsets you?" he asks. " _My_ , that doesn't bode well."  
  
"Talking to _you_ upsets me," John mutters, turning back to the stack of envelopes in front of him, and Mycroft watches him in silence for a long moment, before finally - mercifully - turning to leave --

and Mycroft Holmes can't _not_ have the last word, and it drifts over his shoulder as he heads back down the stairs; "If that's what you need to tell yourself, John."  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> And yes. A deliberate over-simplification of ONS statistics to suit the fic. :)


End file.
